


Until You Come Back to Me

by am_bellanoire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: “Don't think about that now, pet.”A breathy huff that is almost a sob gets caught in Hermione's throat. “I'm not.”“You are.”Curse the Death Eater for knowing her so damned well.





	Until You Come Back to Me

She is more than a sight to behold. The epitome of her namesake. Warrior. And oh, isn't she just that? Wild of hair, darker than the midnight sky, and fierce of demeanor. Most think her to be deranged,driven mad by the fourteen years she had spent in Azkaban, her mind eaten away at by Dementors. But beneath the cleverly constructed crazed facade beats the heart of intelligence and ferocious protection, love, and loyalty. Shrewd and calculating. Cunning. Ever the Slytherin. 

Hermione loves her more than her next breath and couldn't explain why even if prompted. Perhaps it is the way those dark eyes watch her every move even when it doesn't seem as though she is paying attention. The same eyes that can hold so much emotion in their depths. Only she can tell when her warrior is truly unhappy, upset, angry, or afraid even when others can not. Maybe it is the way she carries herself. Treading that perfect balance between elegant and brazingly uncouth. Still, her style of dress could be another factor as well. Black as her name and oh so fitting. From the distressed lace to the corset that perfectly cinched her waist to the flow of her skirts. 

But it is probably her voice that solidifies it. Yes, that has to be it. She can do things with her voice that has Hermione shuddering like she was freezing and yet burning beneath her skin just the same. She can do things with her voice that defy the laws of reason. And her laughter, it says so much without words. Rich and full when she is truly amused, chilling when she means to mock and intimidate. 

A cackle. Just like the one that rings out now, harsh and derisive, echoing off of the stone walls of the drawing room. 

“I can feel you staring at me, pet.”

Hermione can't help the way her body responds whenever Bellatrix calls her 'pet'. There is possessiveness in the term of endearment. Ownership, yes, but love too. And to the Gryffindor, that is most important. The feeling is reciprocated. As is the possessiveness. 

“I like the view.” 

True to her former house, the countering words are growled. And it is that low rumble in her throat that gets the reaction she desires. The sparring match with their brother in law is momentarily forgotten – quite a feat to achieve when it comes to Bella – a crooked walnut wand lowered ever so slightly. Hermione loves that she can draw her warrior from something so essential to who she is. 

“Oh, is that right?”

But Bella can be so one track minded. That is also who she is. Once her concentration is broken from one specific thing, whatever it may be, it can take some finagling to get her back on track. And sometimes that works wonderfully in Hermione's favor. 

Like now. 

“It is.”

A clearing of a throat brings one of the two witches from their moment. The brunette tilts her head at the father of the boy who had been her tormentor in her early years at Hogwarts. Now her is more of a father figure than the brother in law he actually is and she can tell he is uncomfortable and the shameless flirtatious display. His elm wood wand still half raised but a pinched expression on his pale face. 

Somehow, even without looking at him, Bellatrix can sense this too.

“Lucius be a dove and leave us the room.”

Her posture remains unchanged as does the steady gaze she fixes her wife with. If it is possible, Hermione's core aches even more. Merlin, how she loves when she has her dark witch's undivided attention. 

“We've an hour Bella.”

And there is Lucius. Ever trying to make himself look good for the Dark Lord. Hermione understands it. His motivation is his family. But just because one understands something doesn't mean they want to give into that understanding. She is still coming off of her Golden Girl moniker so the glare she sends the platinum blond's way isn't nearly as frightening as Bellatrix's is. Bella is better at scaring people off with a mere look than she is. And for that she is grateful. Especially when Lucius makes a break for the room's double doors. He does make a run for his life look so sophisticated too. Not that Hermione is paying attention. As soon as the room is clear and the door is closed, she only has eyes for her dark witch.

“Kiss me.”

Contrary to belief, lions aren't the only ones who can growl. Snakes apparently can too. But Hermione is feeling in a playful mood. 

“You want it, come take it.” 

It's daring, to be sure, but she cannot resist the way her taunt makes Bella's eyes darken even more. The way her stance shifts. She's the prey now, not Lucius, and it feels so good to be prey. The way her heart rate increases to a pound, the way all of her sense go on high alert. The whimper like moan that escapes her throat as Bellatrix closes the distance between the two of them in three strides, the arm she wraps around her waist like a vice grip. The ruthless nip of teeth at the shell of her ear. 

Their love is a strange thing, something that has taken them both some time to get used to, and to be perfectly honest, neither have really nor do they want to. It feels good that things can always manage to feel so new. So exciting and decadent, so passionate, terrifying, and mind numbing. 

The sharp, shuddering gasp that is torn from her mouth sounds almost like it did the first time she was dragged beneath the undertows of the wild current that is Bellatrix's personal brand of torturous pleasure. There are tendrils of nervousness that begin to creep like ivy in the way her fingers tremble as they knife themselves through endless dark curls. The way her knees weaken and the way her stomach flips. 

There is no one else in the world that can make her feel this way. 

And Bella, she knows this and it spurs her on. They tumble to the floor, both yanking at clothes, reaching for skin, lips locked and battling seemingly for dominance, but it's more to it than that. Anyone observing would swear the Death Eater has the upper hand. They would be wrong. There is no upper hand between them. Hermione has her dark witch wound and desperate, clinging and crooning the filthiest words of affection and they are both breathless and heaving, wrapped in each other's arms, the cold marble floor not even able to cool the heat that rises like steam between them. 

“Mmm,” Bellatrix groans, low in her throat, tilting her head back to expose the graceful column of her neck, the fading black number 93 tattoo expanding with the motion, tugging the brunette to where she wants her to be, lips flush against her fluttering pulse point, “Mark me, pet. I want to feel you, see you all over me. I want the world to see.”

Hermione is all too willing to oblige. She would never say it aloud but it thrills her when her witch does submit to her. It doesn't happen often enough to be routine, but those little moments when Bellatrix affirms that she is Hermione's just as much as Hermione is hers, they mean so much. They also scare the younger witch out of her wits in equal measure. Because they tend to happen right before some important mission for the Dark Lord. 

Like now.

Hermione allows that fear to put force behind the bite she leaves in Bellatrix's tender flesh. One would think her warrior to be made of stone or marble but she isn't and the lioness' teeth nearly draw blood. Capillaries burst and flood beneath the skin, forming a livid bruise and Bellatrix's high pitched moan – a rare but coveted sound during their lovemaking – makes Hermione's inner thighs throb in earnest. 

She doesn't have to wait. With a purr and a strength that can sometimes be shocking given her dainty size, Bellatrix flips their positions and Hermone is on her back on the floor, her bare chest rising and falling as her wild witch is poised to strike like a cobra, hovering above her, an expression of deadly destruction on her pale face. One that is probably the last thing many a witch and wizard has ever seen. One that makes Hermione writhe beneath her seeking out any sort of friction to ease the ache between her legs. 

Bella's hand offers cold relief against the scorching heat of her core, slipping inside sodden folds that she knows so well, forcing a keening cry from Hermione's parted lips. She drives two fingers into her with an odd placed, almost worshipful gentleness that won't last. Not that Hermione wants it to. She wants Bellatrix to _fuck_ her. And she knows that's what she's going to get. 

The stretch still manages to slightly sting despite how many times they have done this and the brunette relishes that bite of pain. The way Bellatrix's thick lashes flutter at the hiss and wince she doesn't hold back. She loves it when a full red mouth descends to capture hers and tenderly kisses the soft sound of discomfort into oblivion. And then those fingers curl deep inside her and that wrist twists, a lick of flames heating the sensitive spot within her that she's never been able to find herself, and stars fandango across her vision. 

It's fast and fervent and feral and everything they both need in that moment. Bellatrix's unforgiving thrusts, hitting that spot with murderous precision, Hermione helpless but to receive, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her legs spread wide and wanting more, her nails painting welts of crimson on a canvas of alabaster skin. Her moans and sobs and gasps and cries filling the sex charged air of the room. The coil of release is snapped far too soon, her inner walls rapidly clenching, spasming, limbs quaking, her vocal chords breaking as she screams her lover's name, uncaring of who can hear her. Let her shatter the windows with her voice if she can. Bella would love that. 

It's only when she comes down from the high, blinking the haze of pleasure from her honey eyes that the crushing weight of sadness and worry settles in. Time has no meaning in those passion filled moments between them. Now that it's over, she knows their hour is almost up and she can no longer meet Bellatrix's gaze. If she so much as glances at that dark stare, tears will spill from hers. 

Bella peppers the line of her jaw with soft open mouthed kisses that lead up to her flushed cheek, the blunt edges of her teeth nibbling at her earlobe. 

“Don't think about that now, pet.”

A breathy huff that is almost a sob gets caught in Hermione's throat. “I'm not.”

“You are.”

Curse the Death Eater for knowing her so damned well. 

“I can't help it.” She hates the weakness in that broken and pathetic tone but she truly _can't_ help it. How can she? She had made so many sacrifices, she had lost so much just to be right here, right now, to have this moment. She understands who Bellatrix is and what she stands for, who she fights for. She knows Bella is the best at what she does, knows Bella will kill, will torture, will maim whosoever and whatsoever stands between her and what she holds most dear. 

But what if? What if something goes wrong? An ambush, Bella caught off guard for only a split second? Something unexpected, a miscalculation on either side's part? One misstep, a misfire, anything. And the light of her warrior star would be forever put out. Hermione does not know how she could ever bear that.. Her breathing becomes quickened as a knock at the door sounds, far too quick, veering dangerously close to hyperventilation. 

With her spider-like touch beneath her chin, the dark witch tilts her lover's face upward so that their eyes can meet. The affect is staggering and the tightness in the brunette's chest slowly loosens despite the summons they both ignore. 

“I will come back to you,” Bellatrix vows calmly yet fiercely, the words low and blazing, allowing no room for disagreement or rebuttal, “I swear it. I will always come back to you.”


End file.
